


the smoke has blackened my bones

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 2.03 Ice Pick, Angry Stiles is angry, Derek is...Derek, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Scott is Hurt, M/M, only less growly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t hurt him like that again,” Stiles must look like an idiot, standing up to an Alpha werewolf when he’s just some lanky teenager, a lanky teenager that only has the entire internet at his disposal, and while the internet is useful in many ways, he’s not quite sure it’ll suddenly morph into some badass weapon useful enough for fighting a werewolf. But that’s just it, Stiles will always put himself in the line of fire for everyone he cares about because he <i>has</i> to. He doesn’t have superhuman strength and he doesn’t have the heart-crunching urge to sit back on his haunches and howl at the moon. He’s just <i>human</i>, painstakingly human and he has to do what he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the smoke has blackened my bones

**Author's Note:**

> So here's a really late coda to 2.03 Ice Pick that no one is even interested in anymore! I had some trouble with this one. I wanted to make it "shippy" but still have it toned down enough for it to fit in canon. I'm not quite sure I succeeded, and this is most likely AU now from how the show is actually going, but I'm thinking I might make this a series of episode tags, maybe having them branch off into my own personal head canon. I'm not quite sure, anyway.
> 
> This isn't beta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

When Stiles arrives at his house, Scott's laying bloody on his bed.  
  
Stiles kind of panics, flails his arms in Scott's general direction, legs scrambling out in front of him--he may or may not have a concussion, and he can't be bothered to go the Scott's mom to find out (and plus, his dad would find out, and his dad finding out about the concussion will inevitably lead to an indefinite grounding, and Scott obviously needs Stiles available to save his ass all of the damn _time_ , so that can't happen any time soon).  
  
Scott just sort of looks at him, before plummeting back into the mattress and letting out a groan just the wrong side of painful.  
  
A groan that shouldn't be happening because Scott shouldn't be in  _ physical _ pain. He should be healed, by now.  
  
"Scott?" Stiles asks, "buddy, you alright there?"  
  
Scott mumbles something into the mattress, but it’s nothing Stiles is able to understand.  
  
“Mind speaking up?” Stiles asks, using his best “I’m-gentle-and-fluffy-please-talk-to-me” voice. Because Scott is kind of like a dog, and you have to handle things delicately around him.  
  
“Derek ripped into my side with his claws.” Scott says, and that’s definitely pain lacing his voice, raw and strained, like it hurts him just to  _ talk _ , Jesus, and Stiles is blinded by sudden and  _ violent _ rage.  
  
“He  _ hurt  _ you?” Stiles asks, because while Derek’s admittedly an asshole, he didn’t think he’d ever seriously hurt Scott and  _ mean _ it. Especially without an apparent reason.  
  
“There was a fight,” Scott breathes, a quick in-and-out movement, and it makes Stiles chest ache to see how much effort it takes Scott to even do that--Scott does have a low pain tolerance, but Stiles’ll be damned to just sit there and watch him take it. “Between Isaac and Erika and I. Boyd and Derek were there--Boyd was already turned.”  
  
“Did you beat their asses?”   
  
Scott blinks. “What--”  
  
Stiles broods--and seriously, is he suddenly Derek Hale or something?--and rubs his face, where there’s no doubt going to be a bruise tomorrow. “Erika hit me with Jessie’s carburetor.” Stiles whines, and when Scott simply stares at him blankly, he elaborates, “they’re expensive as hell to fix and I’m pretty sure she gave me a concussion.”  
  
“Dude, she’s a girl.”  
  
“She used her hot-girl powers on me, dude! That’s like, a penalty or something.”  
  
Scott rolls his eyes. “It’s not healing.”  
  
“Why not? You’re a werewolf, dude, you’re kind of supposed to heal.”  
  
Scott looks vaguely annoyed. “I know, _man_ . I talked to Deaton about it. Apparently a Alpha’s scratch doesn’t heal against other werewolves like a normal cut would,” he says, sounding hopeless.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Deaton said it had something to do with an Alpha claiming his mark on the lower level betas. Either to show dominance or ownership, it just depended on the situation.”  
  
“And what do you think this was?”  
  
“I challenged him,” Scott says, sinking back into Stiles’ bed, probably getting blood everywhere but it’s not like Stiles could care. “Well, I challenged his pack. I’m lucky to be alive.”  
  
And Stiles doesn’t know where Scott got this bout of sudden wisdom from, but he just nods, and says, “Yeah, you are.”  
  
*  
  
When Scott is back in his own room thanks to a sneaky Allison and Stiles talking a storm to Ms. McCall when she gets home from work early, Stiles decides to sneak over to Derek’s new place to talk.  
  
Only, he doesn’t know where exactly Derek’s hiding out now, because the Argents have completely taken control over his shell of a house, and Stiles would be an imbecile to go back there, now, and Derek would even be there. He's pretty sure the Alpha wolf caught the memo by now, that his childhood home is basically a feeding ground for hunters-with-questionable-motivations.  
  
So, instead he searches for Erika, or Isaac, because they no doubt now where their Alpha is, and Stiles has a few choice words to exchange with the guy. 

He’s not really expecting to be slammed up against the wall when he turns the corner to a particularly dark (and admittedly creepy) street. He yelps, and is about to hollar for help, because it could be someone who could  hurt him, but he's silenced by a hand covering his mouth. 

 

Figures.  


  
“What are you doing out here?”   
  
But--  
  
It’s only Derek.  
  
He should probably still call for help.  
  
But he’s not going to.  
  
He’s pretty sure Derek wouldn’t hurt him, anyway.  
  
80% sure.  
  
“Dude, you can’t just go around slamming innocent teenagers into  _ walls _ ,” Stiles stresses, because he doesn’t think Derek knows how dangerous and pedophilic that makes him look. He doesn’t know if his family had some vendetta against proper human manners, or maybe his family just never got around to teaching him the proper way to handle people that aren’t powerful supernatural creatures, but Stiles really thinks Derek should learn. Because one day he’s going to kill Stiles.  
  
And then Stiles’ dad will kill Derek, and then the whole town will be fucked, with four betas running loose without their Alpha and all.  
  
Derek just growls, low and pissed in his throat, and shoves him against the wall more roughly. “What are you doing out here  _ alone _ Stiles?”  
  
“Looking for you, sourwolf,” Stiles spit. He couldn’t ignore the anger anymore, it’s running hot through his veins and he didn’t want Derek to somehow weasel his way out of it like he usually does.  
  
“Why?”   
  
“You  _ hurt _ Scott,” Stiles says, venomously. “He was bleeding out on my sheets earlier, and he’s hurt and he’s not  _ healing _ . You did that on purpose!”  
  
Derek’s eyes darken, but thankfully don’t turn red, and he hisses as he turns on Stiles. “Don’t,” he says, thickly. “I’m trying to  _ help _ him.”  
  
“You’re trying to help him,” Stiles repeats, disbelieving. “I don’t believe that.”  
  
Derek growls, shoving Stiles especially hard. “If he doesn’t join my pack, he becomes an omega, a wolf without a pack, and that’s never good, especially for someone as young as he is. The Argents--their code isn’t valid anymore. They’re picking off wolves whenever they see fit, that next wolf might be  _ Scott _ .”  
  
Stiles doesn’t want to believe him, but he knows that Derek’s telling the truth, now. “And you thought that coercing him into the pack with violence would be the smartest move?”  
  
“He hasn’t listened to anything else,” Derek says, and yeah, that’s true, too.  
  
“He won’t do anything that jeopardizes his relationship with Allison,” Stiles says instead of agreeing with him, because he’s pretty sure that would make him a bad friend. Or something.   
  
“He’s going to lose her no matter what,” Derek says, and then adds, “relationships with humans don’t work. Especially with hunters.”  
  
“Allison--”  
  
“She’s a hunter.” Derek says, eyes glowing red.  
  
“Pushy,” Stiles comments, and winces when Derek doesn’t let up with the grip. “Hey, buddy, mind not choking me? We are in public, and like, this must be against  _ some _ sort of law, right? Indecent handling of a minor? Aggravated slamming of innocent bystanders into walls? Maybe?”  
  
Derek doesn’t look impressed, but he does let up on the grip, and steps away from Stiles, a little.  
  
“You’re jumpier than usual,” Derek comments, like it’s a  _ good _ thing.  
  
Stiles--  
  
Stiles can’t even.  
  
“Yeah, well, you can blame your new princess for that one,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his temple tenderly.  
  
Derek’s eyes narrow. “Erika hurt you?”  
  
Stiles snorts. “‘Hurt’ being an understatement,” he sneers, and then at Derek’s confused, and definitely pissed off look--probably because he’s trash talking one of his puppies, actually,  _ definitely _ because he’s trash talking one of his puppies--continues with, “she hit me in the face with my carburetor. My freaking  _carburetor_. ”  
  
Derek--Derek looks  _ pissed _ .  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Stiles continues. “What a  _ bitch _ . Those things are expensive--and I mean, it’s not like I exactly have the money to  _ fix _ that either. Jessie was a hand-me-down from my father. My  _ father _ . You think she’d show a little compassion or some shit, man.”  
  
“She wasn’t supposed to hurt you,” Derek says, pressing close into Stiles again, but without the anger from before. “I told her  _ specifically _ not to hurt you.”  
  
Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Only a few days in and you already can’t control her?”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, warningly.   
  
“Well,” Stiles says instead of pushing the topic further, because Derek looks like he’s doing that thing where he’s trying to avoid hurting Stiles at all costs, and when he does that thing he’s usually pretty close to doing it anyway. “That’s not what I wanted to see you about, anyway.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Stiles says, “personally, I don’t care if one of your newest puppies goes on a bender--” Derek cuts him off with a growl and Stiles can’t help the terrified yelp that forces it’s way out of his throat.   
  
“ _ Stiles _ .” Derek repeats, in that same warning tone.  
  
“Don’t hurt him like that again,” Stiles must look like an idiot, standing up to an Alpha werewolf when he’s just some lanky teenager, a lanky teenager that only has the entire internet at his disposal, and while the internet is useful in many ways, he’s not quite sure it’ll suddenly morph into some badass weapon useful enough for fighting a werewolf. But that’s just  _ it _ , Stiles will always put himself in the line of fire for anyone he cares about because he _has_ to. He doesn’t have superhuman strength and he doesn’t have the heart-crunching urge to sit back on his haunches and howl at the moon. He’s just  _ human _ , painstakingly human and he has to do what he can.  
  
That’s all he can do, really. And Scott might never be able to understand, and Derek might not be able to either, but Stiles doesn’t regret anything.  
  
Just like he won’t regret this.  
  
Surprisingly enough, Derek doesn’t snap at him, or push him into the wall again, all he does is look thoughtful and stare Stiles down, like Stiles might suddenly break under pressure and Stiles think he might’ve, had it been a few hours earlier and had he not been strung out on his emotions, but now he just holds his gaze.  
  
“I’m just trying to help him,” Derek repeats, “roughing him up was--”  
  
“Stupid,” Stiles supplies, “impulsatory--”  
  
Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Impulsatory isn’t even a word.”  
  
“Thank you, Captain,” sighs Stiles, exasperated.  
  
“I thought I would get through to him,” Derek admits, and he sounds kind of sheepish, maybe a little bit shameful, like how in the grand scheme of things a twenty-four year old roughing up a sixteen year old may have not been the best decision on Derek’s behalf, that it may even be considered a little bit  _ mentally insane _ . “I was wrong.”  
  
“Finally! Derek Hale has seen the light,” Stiles quips, but he sags back against the wall Derek stopped pushing him against and runs a hand over his face. He usually doesn’t let himself think about how tiring it is being surrounded by egotistical werewolves all of the damn time now, but it’s wearing him thin, rubbing against him raw and making him nearly unrecognizable. He doesn’t even think he’s had a solid nights rest since Scott got turned, and that doesn’t  _ bother  _ him, because he could never be bothered by something that’s saving his friend’s life, but it’s stressful at best and almost unbearable at worst. 

 

"I'm taking you home," Derek says, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument. Or it would've, if Stiles was sensitive to that kind of thing, but he wasn't. 

 

"Dude, no, I can handle--"

 

"If you think I'm letting you walk around the streets at _night_ with a murderer still on the loose--"

 

Stiles snorts. "Wow, Derek. I didn't know you cared."

 

Derek growls at him. "Go." He says, instead of commenting on it, and when he pushes Stiles down the street, in the direction of the Stilinski house, Stiles follows.

 

But only because he's tired.

 

Really.

 

*  


Stiles is manhandled into his room in a matter of minutes. Luckily his father isn't home, he's probably working _another_ double shift, like he always seems to now, and normally Stiles would be worried, that his father isn't here, but now he's grateful. Even though Derek technically isn't a fugitive anymore, he's not quite sure his father would take kindly to seeing an ex-suspect of murder in their house. Around his underage teenage son, while said son is arguably unable to defend himself.

 

“You should sleep,” Derek murmurs, suddenly close and in Stiles’ personal space when they finally get to Stiles' room, and it makes him yelp, makes him flail out an arm to Derek’s chest, to push him away and Derek just stands there, like a fucking tank and mocking Stiles forever.  
  
“I’m ‘ine,” Stiles protests, weakly, apparently, because instead of Derek pushing him into the wall some more, he’s pulling him toward Stiles’ bed, and it rings eerily similar to all of the weirdly vivid dreams Stiles has had recently. Ones that start with Derek pulling him toward his bed and end with their clothes scattered on his floor and Derek’s naked skin kissing his own.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek warns.  
  
Stiles raises his hands defensively, but goes toward the bed anyway, because he may be a little more tired than he first realized.   
  
“You gonna tuck me in, sug’r?” Stiles mumbles, and doesn’t expect the soft snort he gets in response. Hah. Funny thinks he’s Derek.  
  
He thinks he hears Derek snort--but no, that can’t be, because Derek has the sense of humor of a dying fish, which means he doesn’t have any at all, and anyway, if he  _ were _ to have one, it’d probably be extensively fucked up, like the-werewolf-killed-the-human-and-then type of thing, which Stiles really, really doesn’t find funny.  
  
Derek doesn’t tuck him in (thank god), he does, however reach out a hand like he’s going to touch Stiles’ face, but retracts it almost immediately, like there’s a ring of fire surrounding Stiles or something. Which would’ve been  _ awesome _ . Finally a badass supernatural power  _ and _ it protects him from seriously questionable Alpha werewolves? Fuck  _ yes _ .  
  
“Stiles, shut up.” Derek growls. Stiles thinks he may have said all of that outloud.   
  
“Oops,” Stiles murmurs, but his voice sounds far away, like he’s hearing someone else talking, but nope, that’s definitely  _ his _ voice.  
  
“Let go,” Derek says, voice back to normal and Stiles doesn’t know why he listens to Derek, because he doesn’t have to. He’s not one of Derek’s unruly mutts that doesn’t understand the meaning of boundaries, he’s just Stiles. Just human Stiles, and technically, Derek doesn’t have any control of him.   
  
But he does.  
  
Probably because he’s tired.  
  
Partly because there’s a part of him that wants to please Derek, like Stiles wants to please everyone.  
  
He’s mainly ignoring that part, though; it’s not important.  
  
So, he closes his eyes, wills his breathing to get even--something that takes some nights more time that he’s willing to admit to happen--and tries to sleep.  
  
And Stiles can’t be sure, can never be sure, but as he falls under, he swears he can feel someone’s lips press against his temple, soft and promising.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Harvey's song "From the Top."


End file.
